THE CRUELEST CUT OF ALL

I cut my finger again!   But before you become too upset, let me fill you in on my first encounter with a very sharp set of knives.  

A few months ago, my son, Josh was visiting with me and tried to slice a loaf of bread.  He said, “Mother, these knives are so dull, I don’t know how you can cut anything.” So, he gave me a gift certificate, and for the first time in 25 years, I bought a new set of sharp kitchen knives.

A few weeks later, I had some new neighbors over for dinner. They moved to Tucson from Canada, and I like them very much. Canadians are such reasonable, calm people, and seem to adjust to the shenanigans of we folks down-under with a smile and a shrug.  As a matter of fact, my friend Paul said, “To cure our government ailments, we should declare war on Canada—and surrender immediately!

But back to my finger:

I have learned to never serve bread with dinner, because when I started to slice it, my new knife sliced bread like going through butter and then through my finger.  Luckily, no spurting blood hit the bread. My guests suggested that I keep pressure on the wound, cover it and then keep my hand up very high. When the finger turned blue, they suggested that I loosen the bandage.
Neither of them are doctors—just reasonable Canadians!  Irene is a world famous artist, and Lewis a prominent attorney and law professor. So, we talked about art and law and stayed away from discussing my finger.

We had a really enjoyable evening, and they didn’t seem to mind that I pointed at the ceiling throughout dinner. We laughed and talked and ate and laughed some more. The evening was a success—especially when my finger stopped bleeding.

So, one would think that I had learned my lesson.  Yes, I did!  Now I only buy sliced bread. However, I did not buy a sliced onion. Yes, it was a really big onion and a very big knife.  Happily, I still have five fingers on each hand.  Experience, even bad experience, does have an advantage, because I now know the bleeding finger drill..bandage, not too tight, pressure on wound and keep pointing up.

Then, I remembered what a movie cowboy does, when he gets shot. He is bleeding and the bullet has to be dug out. He pours whiskey on the wound and bites down on a thick piece of wood. I had no wood in the house and used an anti-biotic cream.  So, I just drank the whiskey. It works!

When I told Josh that I had cut my finger again with the knives he had bought me. He replied,
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m never going to buy you a gun!”

Esther Blumenfeld